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THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


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OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


TEN  GREAT  LITTLE  POEMS 


PUBLISHER'S    NOTE 

WHEREAS,  The  edition  of  this  book  is  limited 
to  one  thousand  copies,  full  count;  and  whereas, 
owing  to  a  contract  with  the  Burrelle  Clipping 
Bureau,  it  is  desirable  to  send  one-third  of  the 
edition  to  the  general  press;  and,  whereas  the 
author  has  many  friends  and  acquaintances  who 
are  always  keen  to  receive  autograph  copies  of 
his  books,  on  account  of  their  handy  size  for 
shaving  paper :  therefore,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that 
the  purchasing  public  will  show  the  same  degree 
of  solicitous  consideration  in  the  matter  of  sup 
ply  and  demand  that  they  have  shown  in  the 
past. 

Respectfully, 

C.   M.   POTTERDON. 


TEN  GREAT  LITTLE 
POEMS 

NOT  BY  THE  OLD  MASTERS 


PICKED  UP   ADRIFT 

BY 
WILLIAM  TIMOTHY  CALL 


Price,  50  Cenfa 


HAWTHORNE,    N.   J. 

C.  M.  POTTERDON 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
WILLIAM  TIMOTHY  CALL 


PS 

£%u 

C/3t> 


PREFACE 


When  music  ceases  to  please  mankind, 
thought  expressed  in  verse,  poetry,  will  be  a 
dead  cock  in  the  pit. 

I  have  thought  it  necessary  to  shock  the 
reader  at  the  start,  in  order  to  get  a  level. 

There  are  no  weights  or  measures,  no  rules 
or  guides,  by  which  you  can  fix  the  worth  of 
a  poem.  True  lovers  of  poetry  are  not  neces 
sarily  lovers  of  true  poetry — if  there  is  such 
a  thing.  They  range  themselves  naturally  and 
honestly  into  three  classes:  the  aristocrats, 
who  love  the  poetry  that  other  aristocrats  have 
loved ;  the  dilettanti,  who  love  the  poetry  that 
no  one  else  loves;  and  the  illiterati,  who  love 
the  poetry  that  amuses  or  awes  them. 

This  booklet  is  not  addressed  to  any  of  those 
classes.  It  is  for  nondescripts — persons  who 
form  their  own  judgments  regardless  of 
authority.  Consequently  these  pages  reflect 


merely  a  personal  opinion,  and  the  personal 
pronoun  is  used  throughout  the  remarks,  be 
cause  they  express  a  personal  opinion,  and 
because  the  writer  is  a  nondescript  lover  of 
verse — himself  no  versifier. 

W.  T.  CALL. 
New  York, 
August,  1911. 


TEN  GREAT   LITTLE 
POEMS 


Many  times,  in  varying  moods  and  tenses, 
I  have  given  my  imagination  a  holiday,  with- 
this  question  to  play  with:  What  short  poem 
in  the  English  language  would  you  best  like 
to  have  written?  The  answer  has  steadfastly 
been:  This  is  it. 

In  attempting  to  analyze  this  notion  of  a 
nondescript  lover  of  poetry,  I  have  put  the 
blame  where  it  would  rest  easiest;  that  is,  on 
Edgar  Allan  Poe.  That  scalawag  wrote  a 
lecture  on  The  Poetic  Principle  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  cut  with  acid.  Years  ago 
I  asked  R.  H.  Stoddard,  America's  watchdog 
of  good  literature,  whether  Poe  had  as  clean 
an  intellect  as  Blaise  Pascal;  and  the  old  czar 
swore  so  about  Poe  that  I  saw  he  was  not 


talking  about  the  thing  I  was  thinking  about. 
Anyway,  I  blame  Poe  for  any  of  my  own 
follies  in  poetic  taste.  In  my  notion  of  ex 
cellence  in  poetry,  it  is  expression — the  actual 
verbal  statement,  that  is  the  thing,  regardless 
of  the  loftiness  or  profundity  of  the  idea.  Any 
one  can  think  poetry. 

To  resume.  I  found  in  attempting  to 
analyze  my  notion  that  my  liver  acted  badly 
in  the  presence  of  art  in  expression,  and  I 
discovered  that  that  silly  organ  easily  gave  up 
its  ghost  in  the  presence  of  TENDERNESS — 
the  presiding  spirit  of  De  Massa  ob  de  Sheep- 
fol'. 

Again  and  again  (for  I  can  not  see  into  a 
poem  until  I  have  read  it  many  times)  I  went 
over  Psalm  xxiii,  Tennyson's  Tears,  Idle 
Tears,  Eugene  Field's  wonderful  gems,  and 
all  the  others  of  kin  familiar  to  me,  but  back  I 
came  to  my  truelove. 

Of  the  birth  and  career  of  this  poem  I  know 
nothing  at  first  hand.  It  would  be  a  large 
book  that  would  contain  all  that  has  been  said 
in  praise  of  it  by  others.  The  following  note 
was  clipped  from  the  New  York  Sun  during 
the  lifetime,  I  think,  of  Charles  A.  Dana, ' 
its  editor,  whose  anthology,  The  Household 

8 


Book  of  Poetry,  is  unexcellable  in  taste  and 
judgment: 

DE  MASSA  OB  DE  SHEEPFOL' 

A  friend  has  robbed  his  cherished  scrapbook 
to  send  in  a  clipping  of  the  first  appearance  of 
the  poem  in  The  Sun.  The  question  was  then 
asked  who  was  the  author.  This  further  com 
ment  was  made:  "Without  regard  to  the  dialect, 
this  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems  in  the 
English  language.  We  have  attributed  it  to  Mr. 
Joel  Chandler  Harris  of  Atlanta,  the  author  of 
'Uncle  Remus,'  but  he  says  that  it  is  not  his."  It 
was  later  identified  as  being  the  work  of  Sally 
Pratt  Maclean  Greene,  author  of  "Cape  Cod 
Folks."  It  is  found  in  Stedman's  "American 
Anthology,"  page  635.  Set  to  music  by  J.  M. 
Whyte,  it  appears  in  the  program  of  the  jubilee 
(1891)  of  the  Freedmen's  Aid  Society.  It  was 
also  set  to  music  by  John  Kimball  Reynolds  and 
published  by  R.  L.  Durant  of  Los  Angeles. 

In  my  search  during  many  years  for  un 
crowned  waifs  and  strays  I  have  not  found  it 
a  simple  matter  to  isolate  a  rarity  in  the  rich 
wildwood  of  modern  verse.  The  wandering 
eye,  the  listless  ear,  and  the  satiated  fancy 
appeal  for  rest,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  new 
thing  under  the  sun.  Then  is  the  time  to  get 


out  your  checker-board,  or  your  solitaire  pack, 
or  take  a  dose  of  Kant.  The  soothing  effect 
of  those  antidotes  for  poetry  poisoning  opens 
the  inner  eye  to  the  conviction  that  dialect  is 
a  powerful  imp  in  giving  atmosphere  to  verse. 
Note  its  effect  in  that  popular  little  wastrel  of 
the  periodical  press,  the  Wessex  Love  Song, 
beginning  thus : 

Hast  thee  heerd  the  culver  dove, 
When  the  woods  be  green, 

Zingen  to  his  mate  o'  love 
Arl  his  heart  do  mean? 

At  the  other  end  of  the  poetic  procession, 
observe  what  the  solemn  style  (which  I  choose 
to  class  as  dialect)  does  for  the  twenty-third 
Psalm ;  which  Mayor  Gaynor,  discussing  man's 
intellectual  advancement,  points  to  as  match 
less. 

So  I  think  the  charm  of  the  poem  we  have 
at  last  come  to  not  a  little  due  to  the  cut  of 
its  clothing: 


10 


.THE   LOST   SHEEP 

De  massa  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dat  guard  de  sheepfol'  bin, 

Look  out  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows 
Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin — 

So  he  call  to  de  hirelin'  shepa'd, 
Is  my  sheep,  is  dey  all  come  in? 

On  den  says  de  hirelin'  shepa'd, 
Dey's  some,  dey's  btack  and  thin, 

And  some,  dey's  po'  ol'  wedda's, 
But  de  res'  dey's  all  brung  in, 
But  de  res'  dey's  all  brung  in. 

Den  de  massa  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dat  guard  de  sheepfol'  bin, 

Goes  down  in  the  gloomerin'  meadows, 
Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin — 

So  he  le'  down  de  ba's  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Callin'  sof,  "Come  in,  come  in !" 
Callin'  sof,  "Come  in,  come  in!" 

Den  up  t'ro  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 

T'ro  de  col'  night  rain  an'  win', 
And  up  t'ro  de  gloomerin'  rain  paf, 

Whar  de  sleet  fa'  pie'cin'  thin, 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in: 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 

ii 


II 

Here  is  a  poem  not  so  well  known  as  the 
preceding.  In  my  estimation  it  stands  unex 
celled  in  the  class  I  like  to  regard  as  repre 
senting  MAJESTY. 

Quick  from  the  poetry  lover's  mind  will 
come  the  challenge:  "What!  Do  you  dare  to 
match  this  obscure  creature  against  the  ar 
mored  brain  children  of  the  masters  ?" 

To  this  I  reply :  "Yes,  I  must."  Go  to  your 
anthologies,  your  golden  treasuries,  your 
private  collections;  bring  out  your  favorites, 
sort  out  your  unbeaten  champions,  send  forth 
your  Goliath.  Perchance  you  may  choose 
Byron's  Ocean;  or  maybe  you  are  a  Kipling-' 
ite  (I  am,  as  to  his  poetry) — but  I  know  most 
of  your  gladiators  quite  well,  and  I  take  off 
my  hat  to  them  with  reverence  whenever  we 
chance  to  meet.  Still  I  have  put  my  money  on 
this  little  David,  and  there  it  shall  remain. 

My  clipping  credits  these  stately  stanzas  to 
Florence  Earle  Coates.  I  have  made  no  effort 
to  verify  the  text  or  to  learn  anything  about 
its  history.  It  is  enough  for  the  purpose  of 
these  rambling  pages  to  give  what  I  have 
found  just  as  I  found  it: 


12 


DEATH 

I  am  the  key  that  parts  the  gates  of  Fame; 
I  am  the  cloak  that  covers  cowering  Shame; 
I  am  the  final  goal  of  every  race ; 
I  am  the  storm-tossed  spirit's  resting-place : 

The  messenger  of  sure  and  swift  relief, 
Welcomed  with  waitings  and  reproachful  grief; 
The  friend  of  those  that  have  no  friend  but  me, 
I  break  all  chains  and  set  all  captives  free. 

I  am  the  cloud  that,  when  Earth's  day  is  done, 
An  instant  veils  an  unextinguished  sun ; 
I  am  the  brooding  hush  that  follows  strife, 
The  waking  from  a  dream  that  Man  calls — Life ! 


Ill 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  the  creator 
of  Finnigin  laid  him  down  on  paper  with  the 
same  ease  and  celerity  that  Doctor  Johnson 
put  down  Rasselas.  If  he  did,  the  whole  thing 
must  have  been  in  the  womb  of  his  brain  the 
proper  period,  for  it  is  perfect. 

In  vain  I  have  searched  Hood,  Holmes, 
Harte,  Saxe,  Boker,  and  the  poetry  corners  of 
the  ephemeral  press  for  its  superior  as  a  word 
mosaic.  It  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  apotheosis 
of  CLEVERNESS.  Here  we  have  a  jewel 
in  the  rough.  Cut  it  to  purity,  and  we  have — 
Tennyson — no  one  else. 

I  am  aware  that  this  juxtaposition  will  jolt 
the  susceptibilities  of  the  cognoscenti.  But 
who  can  abide  a  judicious  lover !  Poe  said  he 
considered  Tennyson  the  noblest  poet  of  them 
all.  Me,  too.  Taine,  who  knew  English  liter 
ature  better  than  any  Englishman  that  ever 
lived,  may  have  made  a  lapsus  in  preferring 
one  of  his  own  countryman  to  our  English- 


man.  As  to  that,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  do 
know  that  you  must  read  a  poem  in  the  lan 
guage  in  which  it  was  written,  or  you  must 
read  two  different  poems  at  once.  Imagine 
Finnigin  in  French ! 

Now  what  I  say  is  that  in  the  fine  purple 
of  the  Bugle  Song  and  the  homespun  of  this 
tatterdemalion  I  see  no  choice  as  to  the  art 
of  the  workmanship. 

Ralph  ,A.  Lyon,  writing  from  Baltimore, 
February  i,  1906,  to  the  New  York  Times, 
says:  "Strickland  W.  Gillilan,  the  author  of 
Finnigin  to  Flannigan,  told  me  that  the  verses 
had  been  stolen  and  mutilated  so  often  that 
he  almost  felt  like  giving  up  the  task  of  try 
ing  to  father  them." 

The  text  here  used  is  that  of  a  clipping 
crediting  the  verses  to  S.  W.  Gillilan,  with 
acknowledgment  to  Life: 


Superintindint  wuz  Flannigan; 
Boss  av  the  siction  wuz  Finnigin; 
Whiniver  the  kyars  got  offen  the  thrack 
An'  muddled  up  things  t'  th'  divil  an'  back, 
Finnigin  writ  it  to  Flannigan, 
Af ther  the  wrick  wuz  all  on  agin ; 
That  is,  this  Finnigin 
Repoorted  to  Flannigan. 

Whin  Finnigin  furst  writ  to  Flannigan, 
He  writed  tin  pages,  did  Finnigin. 
An'  he  tould  jist  how  the  smash  occurred; 
Full  minny  a  tajus,  blunderin'  wurrd 
Did  Finnigin  write  to  Flannigan 
Afther  the  cars  had  gone  on  agin. 
That  wuz  how  Finnigin 
Repoorted  to  Flannigan. 

Now  Flannigan  knowed  more  than  Finnigin ; 
He'd  more  idjucation,  had  Flannigan; 
An'  it  wore  'm  clane  and  complately  out 
To  tell  what  Finnigin  writ  about 
In  his  writin'  to  Muster  Flannigan. 
So  he  writed  back  to  Finnigin: 
"Don't  do  sich  a  sin  agin; 
Make  'em  brief,  Finnigin !" 


16 


Whin  Finnigin  got  this  from  Flannigan, 

He  blushed  rosy  rid,  did  Finnigin; 

An'  he  said:  "I'll  gamble  a  whole  month's  pa-ay 

That  it  will  be  minny  an'  minny  a  da-ay 

Befoore  Sup'rintindint,  that's  Flannigan, 

Gits  a  whack  at  this  very  same  sin  agin. 

From  Finnigin  to  Flannigan 

Repoorts  won't  be  long  agin." 

Wan  da-ay  on  the  siction  av  Finnigin, 

On  the  road  sup'rintinded  by  Flannigan, 

A  rail  give  way  on  a  bit  av  a  curve 

An'  some  kyars  went  off  as  they  made  the  swerve. 

"There's  nobody  hurted,"  sez  Finnigin, 

"But  repoorts  must  be  made  to  Flannigan." 

An'  he  winked  at  McGorrigan, 

As  married  a  Finnigin. 

He  wuz  shantyin'  thin,  wuz  Finnigin, 

As  minny  a  railroader's  been  agin, 

An'  the  shmoky  ol'  lamp  wuz  burnin'  bright 

In  Finnigin's  shanty  all  that  night — 

Bilin'  down  his  repoort,  was  Finnigin. 

An'  he  writed  this  here:  "Muster  Flannigan: 

Off  agin,  on  agin, 

Gone  agin — Finnigin." 


IV 

In  the  old  days  of  scientific  rhetoric  we  were 
all  taught  the  elements  of  the  sublime  and  the 
beautiful,  crystallized  into  formulas  by  the 
schoolmen.  Now  here  are  some  stanzas,  cred 
ited  in  my  clipping  to  Jerome  W.  Turner,  with 
acknowledgment  to  the  Atlanta  Constitution, 
that  could  hardly  be  used  to  exemplify  the 
canons  of  the  sublime  or  the  beautiful,  be 
cause  they  represent  REALISM.  Not  the 
realism  of  Flaubert,  but  that  of  Howells  when 
he  is  not  dressed  up  and  stuck  up. 

Henry  Watterson  used  to  like  to  write  about 
Single  Poem  Poets,  but  he  missed  some  of 
them. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  it  was  a 
toss-up  between  Keats  and  Hood  as  to  who 
had  a  poetic  cinch  on  the  fish.  I  did  not  at 
tempt  to  set  up  as  a  contestant  that  popular 
classic  by  Professor  Beers,  beginning, 

A  whale  of  great  porosity, 
And  small  specific  gravity, 

Dived  down  with  much  velocity, 
Beneath  the  sea's  concavity, 

18 


because  they  say  a  whale  is  not  a  fish.  But 
I  know  that  minnows  (the  proper  spelling,  I 
think,  is  minnies)  are  fish,  for  I  have  seen 
them  hundreds  of  times  in  the  Penobscot 
River,  and  I  have  seen  the  sawdust  there, 
and  I  have  seen  the  teeth  of  steel  that 
bit  the  logs  that  produced  the  sawdust  that 
came  from  the  boards  that  made  the  house 
that  many  a  Jack  built.  Furthermore,  I  have 
seen  the  minnies  push  the  sawdust  about  in 
just  the  same  way  the  pensive  poet  who  wrote 
these  gentle  stanzas  must  have  seen  them. 

After  you  have  read  this  slowly  three  times, 
recite  The  Brook,  inaudibly,  once,  and  see 
whether  that  masterpiece  does  not  help  you  to 
admire  its  little  brother: 


SAWDUST 

The  mill-saw  with  its  teeth  of  steel 
Bites  through  the  log  upon  the  tram, 

And  drops  the  dust  like  golden  meal 
Into  the  stream  below  the  dam. 

It  floats  in  long  procession  down — 
Puts  golden  fringe  on  the  water's  edge, 

Or  rests  in  nooklets  green  and  brown, 
And  shines  like  sparks  among  the  sedge. 

Now  swims  a  particle  away 

And  minnows  push  it  here  and  there, 
As  boys  at  football  love  the  play 

On  summer  days  in  the  summer  air. 

The  water  shouts  in  cheering  tones, 
As  float  the  shining  masses  down 

Around  the  curves,  among  the  stones, 
And  past  the  busy  trade-blind  town. 

And  still  the  saw  with  teeth  of  steel 
Bites  through  the  log  upon  the  tram, 

And  drops  its  food  like  golden  meal 
Into  the  stream  below  the  dam. 


20 


Pragmatism  is  a  new  brand  of  philosophy, 
or,  rather,  as  Mr.  James  put  it,  a  new  name  for 
old  ways  of  thinking.  The  old  philosophy  had 
as  its  major  premise,  Nothing  succeeds  like 
success,  though  not  expressed  in  those  vulgar 
words.  The  cornerstone  of  pragmatism  is,  as 
its  wise  guys  point  out,  Does  it  work? 

Using  the  pragmatic  method  instead  of  the 
Aristotelian,  we  are  not  only  able  to  say  fare 
well  to  the  following  poem,  so  dear  to  the  ears 
of  the  lovers  of  formal  logic, 

Iron  is  a  metal; 

All  metals  are  elements; 

Therefore  iron  is  an  element; 

but  we  are  able  to  get  right  down  to  tacks, 
and  do  the  stunt  without  the  use  of  a  net.  The 
question  before  us  is  to  find  out  whether  Casey 
at  the  Bat  is  a  great  poem  or  is  not  a  great 
poem.  All  we  have  to  do  then  is  to  apply 
Mr.  James's  touchstone :  Does  it  work  ? 

The  answer  is  as  simple  as  the  method.  If 
it  doesn't  work,  then  nothing  in  all  literature 
ever  did  work. 

Where  is  there  from  the  days  of  the  harpist 

21 


to  the  era  of  Honus  Wagner  a  sweeter  morsel 
than  the  last  stanza  of  this  pragmatic  poem  ? 

When  I  read  Casey,  as  I  do  every  time  he 
comes  my  way,  for  some  reason  which  I  am 
unable  to  account  for  by  pragmatism,  I  find 
myself  saying: 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 
The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

I  have  always  loved  Barbara  Frietchie  be 
cause  of  the  magical  effect  of  the  wording  on 
a  naturally  weak  visualizing  faculty.  I  see 
pictures  in  the  empty  air  when  I  read  Barbara, 
and  I  feel,  as  by  telepathy,  the  piteous  agony 
of  the  crowd  when  I  read  Casey.  Surely, 
surely  Casey  is  a  great  poem.  It  stands  to 
me  for  VIVIDNESS. 

My  clippings  show  that  this  poem  is  by 
Ernest  L.  Thayer;  that  he  was  graduated  at 
Harvard  in  1885;  that  he  went  to  California 
and  joined  the  staff  of  the  San  Francisco 
Examiner;  and  that  Casey  was  printed  first  in 
that  newspaper,  the  date  being  Sunday,  June 
3,  1888. 

Well,  here  he  is : 

22 


CASEY   AT    THE    BAT 

It  looked  extremely  rocky  for  the  Boston  nine  that 

day; 
The  score  stood  two  to  four,  with  but  an  inning 

left  to  play. 
So,  when  Cooney  died  at  second,  and  Burrows  did 

the  same, 
A  pallor  wreathed  the  features  of  the  patrons  of 

the  game. 

A  straggling  few  got  up  to  go,  leaving  there  the 

rest, 
With  that  hope  which  springs  eternal  within  the 

human  breast, 
For  they  thought:   "If  only  Casey  could  get  a 

whack  at  that," 
They'd  put  up  even  money  now,  with  Casey  at  the 

bat. 

But  Flynn  preceded  Casey,  and  likewise  so  did 
Blake, 

And  the  former  was  a  pudd'n',  and  the  latter  was 
a  fake. 

So  on  that  stricken  multitude  a  death-like  silence 
sat, 

For  there  seemed  but  little  chance  of  Casey's  get 
ting  to  the  bat. 


But  Flynn  let  drive  a  "single,"  to  the  wonderment 

of  all, 
And  the  much-despised  Blakey  "tore  the  cover  off 

the  ball." 
And  when  the  dust  had  lifted,  and  they  saw  what 

had  occurred, 
There  was  Blakey  safe  at  second,  and  Flynn  a- 

huggin'  third. 

Then,  from  the  gladdened  multitude  went  up  a 

joyous  yell, 
It  rumbled  in  the  mountain  tops,  it  rattled  in  the 

dell; 
It  struck  upon  the  hillside  and  rebounded  on  the 

flat; 
For  Casey,  mighty  Casey,  was  advancing  to  the 

bat. 


There  was  ease  in  Casey's  manner  as  he  stepped 

into  his  place, 
There  was  pride  in  Casey's  bearing  and  a  smile  on 

Casey's  face; 
And  when  responding  to  the  cheers  he  lightly 

doffed  his  hat, 
No  stranger  in  the  crowd  could  doubt  'twas  Casey 

at  the  bat. 


Ten  thousand  eyes  were  on  him  as  he  rubbed  his 

hands  with  dirt, 
Five  thousand  tongues  applauded  when  he  wiped 

them  on  his  shirt; 

24 


Then  when  the  writhing  pitcher  ground  the  ball 

into  his  hip, 
Defiance  glanced  in  Casey's  eye,  a  sneer  curled 

Casey's  lip. 

And  now  the  leather-covered  sphere  came  hurtling 

through  the  air, 
An'  Casey  stood  a-watchin'  it  in  haughty  grandeur 

there. 
Close  by  the  sturdy  batsman  the  ball  unheeded 

sped; 
"That  ain't  my  style,"  said  Casey.     "Strike  one," 

the  umpire  said. 

From  the  benches,  black  with  people,  there  went 

up  a  muffled  roar, 
Like  the  beating  of  storm  waves  on  the  stern  and 

distant  shore; 
"Kill  him !  kill  the  umpire !"  shouted  some  one  on 

the  stand; 
And  it's  likely  they'd  have  killed  him   had  not 

Casey  raised  his  hand. 

With  a  smile  of  Christian  charity  great  Casey's 

visage  shone ; 
He  stilled  the  rising  tumult,  he  bade  the  game  go 

on; 
He  signalled  to  the  pitcher,  and  once  more  the 

spheroid  flew ; 
But  Casey  still  ignored  it,  and  the  umpire  said, 

"Strike  two." 

25 


"Fraud!"  cried  the  maddened  thousands,  and  the 
echo  answered  "Fraud !" 

But  one  scornful  look  from  Casey  and  the  audi 
ence  was  awed; 

They  saw  his  face  grow  stern  and  cold,  they  saw 
his  muscles  strain, 

And  they  knew  that  Casey  wouldn't  let  the  ball  go 
by  again. 

The  sneer  is  gone  from  Casey's  lips,  his  teeth  are 

clenched  in  hate, 
He  pounds  with  cruel  vengeance  his  bat  upon  the 

plate ; 
And  now  the  pitcher  holds  the  ball,  and  now  he 

lets  it  go, 
And   now  the  air  is   shattered  by  the   force  of 

Casey's  blow. 

Oh,  somewhere  in  this  favored  land  the  sun  is 

shining  bright, 
The  band  is  playing  somewhere,  and  somewhere 

hearts  are  light; 
And  somewhere  men  are  laughing,  and  somewhere 

children  shout, 
But  there  is  no  joy  in  Boston:  mighty  Casey  has 

struck  out. 


26 


VI 

This  poem  first  came  to  my  attention  many 
years  ago  in,  I  think,  the  New  York  Ledger. 
It  is  by  Josephine  Pollard,  who  wrote  much  in 
verse  and  prose  that  is  praiseworthy.  This 
piece  has  been  greatly  esteemed  for  its  fine 
expression  of  a  strong  but  gentle  passion. 
The  last  stanza  may  perhaps  be  criticised  as 
an  imaginative  exaggeration  that  rather  mars 
than  heightens  the  effect  produced  by  the  feel 
ing  brought  out  in  those  preceding  it.  To  my 
mind  this  piece  realizes  in  verse  the  limits  of 
the  EMOTIONAL. 

I  have  found  the  devices  here  employed  in 
two  or  three  closely  similar  productions  of  the 
greater  poets.  Similarities  and  even  identities 
are  common  enough  in  versicular  literature. 
In  the  ethics  of  the  poets,  it  is  not  he  who 
does  the  thing  first,  but  the  one  who  does  it 
best  that  is  entitled  to  the  laurel: 


27 


LOVE'S   POWER 

If  I  were  blind,  and  thou  shouldst  enter 
E'er  so  softly  in  the  room, 

I  should  know  it, 

I  should  feel  it, 

Something  subtle  would  reveal  it, 
And  a  glory  round  thee  center 
That  would  lighten  up  the  gloom, 
And  my  heart  would  surely  guide  me, 
With  Love's  second-sight  provide  me, 
One  amid  the  crowd  to  find, 

If  I  were  blind ! 

If  I  were  deaf,  and  thou  hadst  spoken 
Ere  thy  presence  I  had  known, 

I  should  know  it, 

I  should  feel  it, 

Something  subtle  would  reveal  it, 
And  the  seal  at  once  be  broken 
By  Love's  liquid  undertone. 
Deaf  to  other,  stranger  voices, 
And  the  world's  discordant  noises — 
Whisper,  wheresoe'er  thou  art, 

'Twill  reach  my  heart ! 

28 


If  I  were  dead,  and  thou  shouldst  venture 
Near  the  coffin  where  I  lay, 

I  should  know  it, 

I  should  feel  it, 

Something  subtle  would  reveal  it, 
And  no  look  of  mildest  censure 
Rest  upon  that  face  of  clay. 
Shouldst  thou  kiss  me,  conscious  flashes 
Of  Love's  fire  through  Death's  cold  ashes 
Would  give  back  the  cheeks  its  red, 

If  I  were  dead ! 


29 


VII 

I  wanted  some  poem  to  stand  for  the  SEN 
TIMENTAL.  As  I  understand  it,  the  senti 
mental  in  poetry  means  something  that  big 
wigs  and  highbrows  disdain,  but  which,  never 
theless,  always  brings  the  great  crowd  to  its 
feet  with  the  mighty  shout — "How  true !"  So 
I  selected  this  poem  from  my  collection,  for 
I  consider  it  the  best  job  in  this  line  that  ever 
was  done. 

When  in  my  early  youth,  searching  for  a 
piece  to  speak,  I  came  across  something  I 
liked  in  the  yellowing  Readers,  Repositories, 
and  Garlands,  I  usually  found  that  it  was  by 
Anon.  To  my  boyish  fancy,  Anon  seemed  to 
be  a  very  old  and  very  popular  writer.  My 
clipping  says  that  the  poem  we  are  now  com 
ing  to  is  by  the  same  dear  old  Anon.  I  know 
better,  but  I  am  not  going  to  realize  Herbert 
Spencer's  conception  of  a  tragedy — a  general 
ization  killed  by  a  fact — through  telling  what 
I  know  of  the  authorship  of  this  poem. 

30 


The  mighty  critics  of  the  ponderous  press, 
sitting  among  their  cockroaches  and  caked  and 
stinking  paste  pots  (to  which,  personally,  I 
have  no  objection),  may  throw  their  little 
paper  darts  at  this  kind  of  writing,  but  there 
is  not  one  of  them  that  can  turn  out  anything 
half  so  good.  I  would  rather  try  to  live  on 
chiclets  than  on  their  pabulum. 

All  together,  now: 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 
Weep,  and  you  weep  alone — " 

For  this  brave  old  earth 

Must  borrow  its  mirth, 
It  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own. 

Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer; 
Sigh,  and  'tis  lost  on  the  air. 

The  echoes  rebound 

To  a  joyful  sound, 
But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you; 
Grieve,  and  they  will  turn  and  go. 

They  want  full  measure 

Of  all  your  pleasure, 
But  they  do  not  want  your  woe. 

Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many; 
Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all. 

There  are  none  to  decline 

Your  nectared  wine, 
But  alone  you  must  drink  life's  gall. 

32 


Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded ; 
Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by. 

Succeed  and  give, 

And  it  helps  you  live, 
But  it  can  not  help  you  die. 

There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 
For  a  long  and  lordly  train; 

But  one  by  one 

We  must  all  file  on 
Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 


33 


VIII 

This  is  my  choice  to  represent  the  IMAGI 
NATIVE.  In  my  opinion  it  is — but  take  your 
pick: 

fine  sumptuous 

grand  lofty 

splendid  sublime 

beautiful  majestic 

stately  elegant 

superb  gorgeous 

lustrous  magnificent 

It  is  real  funny,  too. 

I  do  not  know  who  wrote  the  Romans,  and, 
like  Eva  Tanguay,  I  don't  care.  My  clipping 
credits  it  to  the  Hartford  Courant. 

Had  this  bookee  been  a  work  on  the  game 
of  checkers,  and  that  poem  a  checker  prob 
lem,  I  would  have  searched  and  verified  with 
disgusting  industry  to  find  out  who  did  it,  as 
a  matter  of  simple  justice  to  a  fine  intellect. 

34 


But  in  an  inconsequential  matter  of  this  kind 
I  hardly  think  it  worth  while  to  go  to  so  much 
bother,  and  perhaps  get  into  a  mixup  with 
some  cold-blooded  commercializing  publisher, 
who  would  insist  on  the  damning  line — "By 
kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Muckrake  & 
Mush,"  when  as  a  matter  of  fact  this  classic 
belongs  to  all  the  people  all  the  time : 


35 


THE   MODERN   ROMANS 

Under  the  slighting  light  of  the  yellow  sun  of 

October, 
Close  by  the  side  of  the  car-track  a  gang  of  Dagos 

were  working; 
Pausing   a    moment   to   catch   a   word    of   their 

liquid  Italian, 

Faintly  I  heard  an  echo  of  Rome's  imperial  ac 
cents, 
Broken-down    forms   of   Latin   words    from   the 

Senate  and  Forum, 
Now  smoothed  over  by  use  to  the  musical  ligua 

Romana. 
Then  the  thought  came,  why,  these  are  the  heirs 

of  the  Romans; 
These  are  the  sons  of  the  men  who  founded  the 

empire  of  Caesar; 

These  are  they  whose  fathers  carried  the  conquer 
ing  eagles 

Over  all  Gaul  and  across  the  sea  to  Ultima  Thule ; 
The  race-type  persists  unchanged  in  their  eyes  and 

profiles  and  figures. 
Muscular,   short,   and  thick-set,   with   prominent 

noses,  recalling 

"Romanes  rerum  dominos,  gentemque  togatam." 
See,  Labinus  is  swinging  a  pick  with  rhythmical 

motion ; 
Yonder  one  pushing  the  shovel  might  be  Julius 

Caesar, 
Lean,  deep-dyed,  broad-browed,  and  bald,  a  man 

of  a  thousand; 

36 


Further  along  stands  the  jolly  Horatius  Flaccus; 
Grim  and  grave,  with  rings  in  his  ears,  see  Cato 
the  censor. 

On  the  side  of  the  street  in  proud  and  gloomy 

seclusion, 
Bossing  the  job,  stood  a  Celt;  the  race  enslaved 

by  the  legions. 
Sold  in  the  markets  of  Rome  to  meet  the  expenses 

of  Caesar, 
And,  as  I  loitered,  the  Celt  cried  out,  "Worruk,  ye 

Dagos. 
Full  up  your  shovel,  Paythro,  ye  haythen !     I'll 

dock  yees  a  quarther." 
This  he  said  to  the  one  who  resembled  the  great 

Imperator ; 
Meekly   the   dignified   Roman   kept   on   patiently 

digging. 

Such  are  the  changes  and  chances  the  centuries 

bring  to  the  nations. 
Surely  the  ups  and  downs  of  the  world  are  past 

calculation. 
"Possibly  thus,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "the  yoke 

of  the  Irish 
May  in  turn  be  lifted  from  us,  in  the  tenth  gen- 

x     eration. 
Now  the  Celt  is  on  top,  but  time  may  bring  his 

revenges, 
Turning  the  Fenian  down,  once  more  to  be  bossed 

by  a  Dago." 


37 


IX 

Uncle  Sam  is  inclined  to  smile  at  Punch 
rather  than  with  him — we  are  told. 

In  the  heart  of  Yankeeiand,  in  the  files  of  a 
Catholic  newspaper,  are  to  be  found  more  than 
one  specimen  that  reaches  my  ideal  of  what  in 
poetry  stands  for  a  delicious  vein  of  HUMOR. 
There,  and  in  other  places,  they  are  signed, 
T.  A.  Daly. 

Perhaps  if  I  had  read  this  selection  in 
Punch  ( I  read  Punch  occasionally  at  the  Press 
Club  and  in  the  old  Rolfe  chop  house  in  John 
Street,  Tom  Innd,  prop.,  Albert  on  deck, 
thirty  years  for  mine),  I  might  not  have  been 
at  once  so  keenly  pleased  by  it.  Probably  it 
never  appeared  in  Punch,  and  I  do  not  know 
where  it  was  first  printed ;  but  I  do  know  that 
it  has  gone  the  rounds  of  this  broad  land. 
That  is,  it  has  appeared  in  every  newspaper 
having  a  competent  exchange  reader. 

I  recall  nothing  in  the  standard  poets  to  be 
used  as  a  sounding-board  for  Domineec,  so  I 


have  dragged  in  Punch.  Now  while  there  is 
no  direct  perceivable  relationship  between  the 
humor  of  Punch  and  that  of  Daly,  the  refer 
ence  serves  my  purpose  well  enough,  for  I 
have  seen  some  fine  things  in  Punch  that  are 
different  from  fine  things  that  I  have  seen 
elsewhere.  So  with  Domineec. 

It  is  as  good  as  Abou  Ben  Adhem,  and 
nothing  could  be  better. 

So  here  it  is: 


39 


PADRE   DOMINEEC 

Padre  Domineec  McCann, 
He  ees  great  beeg  Irish  man. 

He  ees  growla  w'en  he  speak, 
Like  he  gona  go  for  you 
Jus,  for  busta  you  in  two. 

My !  he  talk  so  rough,  so  queeck, 
You  weel  weesha  you  could  be 
Som'where  elsa  w'en  you  see 

Padre  Domineec. 

Padre  Domineec  McCann 
Stop  at  dees  peanutta  stan' 

W'en  my  leetla  boy  ees  seeck ; 
Talk  so  rough  he  mak'  me  cry, 
Say  ees  besta  boy  should  die 

So  he  go  to  Heaven  queeck  ! 
He  ees  speak  so  cold  to  me, 
Nevva  more  I  wanta  see 

Padre  Domineec. 

Den  gran'  doctor  com'.    Ees  queer ! 
W'en  I  ask  who  sand  heem  here, 

He  jus'  smile  an'  weel  no  speak 
Only  justa  w'en  he  say: 
"You  no  gatta  cent  to  pay, 

I  gon'  feex  dees  boy  dat's  seeck." 

0  !  beeg-hearta  man,  an'  true  ! 

1  am  gattin'  on  to  you, 
Padre  Domineec ! 


40 


This  for  my  last.  It  is  not  poetry,  it  is  not 
blank  verse,  and  yet  it  is  something  better  than 
fine  prose.  So  I  have  arranged  it  (without 
transposing  words  or  sentences  or  in  any  other 
way  tampering  with  it)  in  verse  form  instead 
of  in  prose  form,  as  I  found  it.  I  use  it  here 
to  stand  for  the  CHARM  ATI  VE  (a  new  word 
for  the  chop  suey). 

No  one  has  ever  been  able  to  analyze  charm, 
qualitatively  or  quantitatively.  Consequently  I 
cannot  tell  what  it  is  that  gives  this  piece  its 
charming  effect.  I  have  tried  it  on  temper 
aments  seemingly  different  from  any  of  mine, 
and  watched,  not  in  vain,  for  low-voiced  ap 
proval.  I  have  never  been  able  to  find  out 
who  wrote  it  or  where  it  originally  appeared. 

Having  nothing  particular  in  mind  to  set 
up  by  the  side  of  this  sort  of  writing,  I  turned 
to  Literature,  Ancient  and  Modern,  by  dear 
old  Peter  Parley.  Now  Peter  Parley  picked 
a  peck  of  perfect  pippins,  and  that  is  the  peck 
of  perfect  pippins  that  Peter  Parley  picked. 


He,  you  know,  was  one  of  the  fathers  of  easy 
reading.  Then  I  turned  to  that  restful  volume 
for  jaded  readers,  A  Book  for  a  Corner,  by 
Leigh  Hunt,  one  of  the  granduncles  of  easy 
reading.  Then  I  turned  to  De  Foe,  one  of  the 
big  grandfathers  of  easy  reading.  In  all  I 
found  elusive,  indescribable  literary  charm. 

Of  course  I  hunted  for  something  in  Gold 
smith  that  would  reveal  to  me  the  true  nature 
and  substance  of  charm.  I  found  the  charm  in 
plentiful  supply,  but  not  the  revelation.  I 
turned  to  Burns,  and  found  the  soul  but  not 
the  secret.  I  gave  up  the  quest.  You  might 
as  well  see  and  hear  Julia  Sanderson  in  the 
Girl  with  the  Brogue  and  try  to  explain  what 
it  is  that  makes  you  shiver  with  delight. 

By  the  way,  speaking  of  Bobbie,  please  read 
slowly  the  first  stanza  of  what  he  said  to  a 
mouse — 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 

0  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 
Wi'  bickering  brattle! 

1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 
Wi'  murd'ring  pattle! 


42 


and  the  second — 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 

Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 

An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal ! 

and  the  — Oh !  it's  hard  to  stop  when  you  are 
reading  Burns. 

I  do  not  make  any  extravagant  claims  for 
the  following  piece,  but  I  hope  you  will  like 
it: 


43 


THE    MOUSE 

SCENE:  A  COURT  OF  LAW 

JOHN  WHITE  (a  warder)  examined: 

My  name's  John  White. 

I  am  a  warder  of  the  gaol  in  which  the  prisoner 
was  confined  for  misdemeanor. 

He  was  convicted  twelve  months  back.  Since  his 
conviction,  his  behavior  has  been  marked  ex 
tremely  good. 

I  know  the  prosecutor,  William  Hinde;  he  also 
is  a  warder  in  the  gaol. 

I  remember  well  the  night  you  mention. 

Yes,  I'll  swear  it  was  the  thirty-first  of  May — the 
time  was  five  to  nine. 

Hinde  went  his  rounds,  and  then  I  heard  high 
words,  when  he  was  in  the  cell  of  number  fifty- 
six  (the  prisoner). 

The  latter  cried,  "You  hound !" 

And  then  I  saw  Hinde  reeling  out,  blood  pouring 
from  his  lips. 

I  said,  "What  is  it?"    And  he  answered  me: 

"That  beast  in  there  has  hit  me  on  the  mouth." 

I  said,  "Whatever  made  him  do  it,  Hinde?" 

And  he  replied,  "I  tried  to  kill  his  mouse,  accord 
ing  to  the  Governor's  orders." 

This  is  my  evidence,  my  Lord. 

44 


The  Judge  (loq.) : 

Prisoner  at  the  bar,  since  you  are  not  defended 
on  your  trial  by  learned  counsel,  it  rests  with 
you  to  urge  your  own  defence. 

You  have  heard  the  evidence  against  you;  speak. 

The  Prisoner  (loq.) : 

My  Lord  and  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury : 

I  have  no  wish  to  cross-examine,  or  attempt  to 
shake  the  testimony  of  those  who  have  appeared 
against  me. 

In  every  particular  it  is  correct;  what  they  have 
said  is  true ;  what  they  have  not,  I  will,  craving 
your  patience,  now  recount. 

Near  fourteen  months  ago  I  was  convicted  of  a 
crime  of  which  I  swear  I  was  quite  innocent; 
which  innocence  were  fully  proved,  had  not  the 
law,  alas,  debarred  my  wife  from  giving  evi 
dence  on  my  behalf,  such  as  alone  could  clear 
my  tarnished  fame. 

Ill  fortune  such  as  this  near  broke  me  down. 

I  had  lost  all,  wife,  children,  home. 

Desolate,  I  wasted  in  my  prison-cell ;  hopeless — 
existing,  true — but  living  not. 

One  night,  when  I  was  served  my  humble  fare,  a 
little  mouse  crept  out  upon  the  floor,  and  eyed 
askance  the  dreaded  human  form. 

I  threw  some  food,  and,  scared,  it  scampered  off; 
but  pangs  of  hunger  lured  it  out  again  and  made 
it  share  my  meal;  a  welcome  guest. 

So  every  night  it  came,  until  at  last  it  grew  so 

45 


tame  I  fed  it  from  my  hand;  it  slept  with  me 

and  nestled  in  my  sleeve. 
I  took  it  in  my  pocket  when  I  went  for  exercise 

with  others  in  the  yard ;  and  much  amusement — 

aye — and   envy,   too,   I    have   excited   when   I 

showed  my  prize. 
I  had  no  friends. 
I  grew  to  love  this  mouse,  as  these  dumb  animals 

are  often  loved  by  those  who  find  all  others  cold 

and  false. 
One  night — it  was  the  fatal  thirty-first  of  May — 

the  warder  Hinde  came  to  my  cell  when  my 

little  pet  was  sporting  on  my  hand. 
He  said,  "They  talk  about  this  mouse  of  yours ; 

just  let  me  see  if  it's  as  tame  as  White,  the 

warder,  says;  I  want  to  see  if  it  will  come  and 

feed  from  my  hand  if  I  hold  it  out." 
Little  suspecting  this  inhuman  fiend,  I  lured  my 

little  pet,  who  quaked  with  fear,  unwilling  yet 

to  court  a  stranger's  touch. 
The  cruel  hand  closed  on  it,  and  he  laughed. 
"Enough  of  this !"  he  cried.    "The  Governor  says 

he.  won't  allow  this  insubordination;  come,  bid 

your  friend  good-bye,  I'm  going  to  crush  him." 
I  sprang  erect.    Oh,  God  !  My  every  nerve  tingled 

with  fear  for  my  poor  little  pet. 
"You  hound !"  I  cried ;  and  then  I  hit  out  straight 

into  the  face  of  this  inhuman  fiend. 
Thank  God,  he  dropped  the  mouse,  which,  fright 
ened  ran,  and  found  a  haven  e'en  from  whence 

it  came. 
This  is  my  crime,  and  I  am  in  your  hands. 

46 


The  Judge  (sums  up)  : 

Gentlemen  of  the  Jury : 

I  am  content,  I  sum  this  case  as  briefly  as  I  can. 

This  tale  is  touching  and,  I  doubt  not,  true ;  but 
you  must  deal  with  facts,  not  sentiments;  it 
rests  with  me  alone  to  mitigate  the  punishment, 
which,  be  assured,  shall  be  awarded  with  re 
spect  to  law. 

Foreman  of  the  Jury  (log.) : 

My  Lord,  we  are  agreed,  and  find  the  prisoner 
guilty,  but  most  strongly  recommend  him  to  the 
mercy  of  this  Court. 

The  Judge  (delivers  sentence) : 

Prisoner  at  the  bar,  you  stand  convicted  of  an 
assault  on  William  Hinde,  your  warder,  for 
which  the  sentence  of  the  Court  receive,  name 
ly,  that  you  be  imprisoned  for  one  day,  and  that 
without  hard  labor,  to  run  concurrently  with 
the  sentence  you  are  undergoing. 

Furthermore,  I  have  here — now,  can  you  bear 
good  news? — a  packet  from  the  Home  Office 
commanding  your  release,  upon  a  pardon 
granted  by  Her  Majesty  the  Queen;  for  now  it 
seems  another  has  confessed  the  crime  for 
which  you  have  already  suffered  wrongfully. 

Thus  you  are  free;  and  I  may  further  add,  John 
White,  the  warder  has  for  you  outside  a  little 
friend  of  yours,  unhurt,  but  caged. 

I  wish  you  well. 

Stop  the  applause  in  Court! 

47 


CROWDED  OUT 

Yes,  this  was  crowded  out,  but  I  am  going 
to  get  it  in  if  the  pressman  has  to  tie  it  to 
the  chase,  as  autocratic  editors  sometimes  say. 
No  author's  name  is  mentioned.  It  is  credited 
merely  to  the  Northwest. 

It  is  hardly  fair  anyway,  to  call  this  a  poem 
— it's  a  word-dance — you  can  hear  the  fiddle. 

I'll  bet  you  a  dollar  you  can't  read  this  thing 
through  and  not  move  your  feet. 

Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  sweets ! 
Shake  yer  spurs  an'  make  'em  rattle ! 
Keno !    Promenade  to  seats. 

Oh,  lordy,  lordy,  how  I  wish  I  could  have 
written  that! 


49 


AN    IDAHO    BALL 

Git  yo'  little  sage  hens  ready, 

Trot  'em  out  upon  the  floor — 
Line  up  there,  you  cusses  !     Steady ! 

Lively,  now  !    One  couple  more. 
Shorty!  shed  thet  old  sombrero, 

Bronco,  douse  thet  cigarette, 
Stop  that  cussin',  Casimero, 

'Fore  the  ladies  !     Now,  all  set ! 

S'lute  your  ladies,  all  together ! 

Ladies  opposite  the  same — 
Hit  the  lumber  with  your  leathers ! 

Balance  all,  an'  swing  your  dame ! 
Bunch  the  heifers  in  the  middle; 

Circle  stags  and  do-se-do! 
Pay  attention  to  the  fiddle ! 

Swing  her  round  and  off  you  go ! 

First  four  forward !    Back  to  places ! 

Second  follow — shuffle  back ! 
Now  you've  got  it  down  to  cases — 

Swing  'em  till  their  trotters  crack ! 
Gents  all  right  a-heel  and  toeing ! 

Swing  'em,  kiss  'em  if  you  kin — 
On  to  next  and  keep  a-goin' 

Till  yer  hit  yer  pards  ag'in ! 


Gents  to  centre ;  ladies  round  'em, 

Form  a  basket ;  balance  all ! 
Whirl  yer  gals  to  where  you  found  'em ! 

Promenade  around  the  hall ! 
Balance  to  yer  pards  and  trot  'em 

'Round  the  circle  double  quick ! 
Grab  an'  kiss  'em  while  you've  got  'em — 

Hold  'em  to  it  if  they  kick ! 

Ladies,  left  hand  to  your  sonnies ! 

Alaman  !     Grand  right  and  left ! 
Balance  all,  an'  swing  yer  honeys — 

Pick  'em  up  and  feel  their  heft ! 
Promenade  like  skeery  cattle — 

Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  sweets! 
Shake  yer  spurs  an'  make  'em  rattle ! 

Keno !    Promenade  to  seats. 


NOCTES    AMBROSIAN^E 

We  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and  art ; 
we  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live  with 
out  heart;  we  may  live  without  friends;  we 
may  live  without  books ;  but — 

Lucile,  Lucile,  the  old  boys  have  not  for 
gotten  you ! 

Take  me  back  to  my  salad  days  and  I  will 
tell  you  of  a  queer  kind  of  tribe  of  Indians. 
The  Old  Grapevine  was  on  the  corner  of  Sixth 
Avenue,  and  it  is  there  yet.  Mac  was  there 
then,  and  I  hope  he  is  there  yet ;  but  I  do  not  go 
to  find  out,  because  I  prefer  to  think  of  things 
as  they  were  rather  than  be  sad  with  one  who 
knows. 

We  were  a  small  band  of  Devilmaycare  In 
dians,  but  a  great  many  hunters  and  trappers 
rubbed  noses  with  us  from  time  to  time.  I 
was  the  Sagamore  of  the  band,  and  my  top- 
floor  back  was  the  favorite  camping-ground. 

We  raided  Mac's  oftener  than  any  other 
place,  because  we  liked  his  pewter,  and  no- 


53 


where  else  did  the  midnight  sun  shine  so  pleas 
antly. 

When  Mac  was  glum  we  knew  just  how  to 
switch  him.  It  was  only  necessary  to  ask  him 
about  the  old  New  Yorkers  who  were  among 
his  patrons.  "Do  you  know  any  of  the  As- 
tors?"  some  one  would  slyly  inquire.  The 
cloud  would  then  slowly  lift,  as  Mac  paused 
to  reply:  "Well,  now,  let  me  think.  I  don't 
know  John  J.  or  William  W.,  but  I  am  very 
well  acquainted  with  Tony  P."  If  Mac  is 
alive  to-day  I'll  bet  he  still  tells  of  his  ac 
quaintance  with  Tony  P. 

Among  our  braves  were  little  editors,  little 
reporters,  little  space-writers,  and  little  poets, 
with  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout  and  here  and 
there  a  grayling.  There  were  also  some  large 
and  prosperous  bummers.  Any  one  was  wel 
come,  regardless  of  race,  color,  or  previous 
condition,  so  long  as  he  had  not  accomplished 
anything  worth  doing.  One  of  our  regulars 
came  close  to  ostracism.  It  happened  in  this 
way: 

He  wrote  a  good  deal  of  clean,  smooth  verse 
that  was  published  and  easily  forgotten.  He 
also  wrote  a  long-story  poem  that  a  foolish 
publisher  thought  the  world  was  just  about 

54 


ready  for,  and  he  put  it  out  in  book  form. 
I  had  read  it  before  publication,  and  reported 
to  the  boys  thus :  "It's  all  right.  It's  as  smooth 
as  slippery  elm.  It's  fine.  They  will  think 
Byron  has  come  back  to  life."  We  were  a 
happy  crowd  when  the  book  was  born,  because 
we  felt  it  would  be  a  deader — and  it  was. 

Now  this  fellow  had  a  short  poem  he  had 
not  given  out  that  I  was  afraid  might  be  the 
real  thing.  I  was  not  cocksure  that  we  had 
not  been  harboring  a  genius  after  all. 

One  day,  in  a  kingdom  by  the  sea,  this  fel 
low  and  I  meandered  down  Broadway  study 
ing  the  signs,  a  favorite  diversion,  to  see  if 
we  could  not  find  something  to  take  the  place 
of  the  old  Broadway  pleasantry,  "I  saw  you 
in  Mclntyre's  drug  store"  (Ewen  Mclntyre). 
When  we  reached  Mr.  Tweed's  monument  we 
discovered  that  we  had  nothing  in  our  pockets 
to  count  but  that  poem,  written  in  a  clear,  neat 
hand.  Passing  through  to  Beekman  Street,  he 
said  to  me  with  a  kindling  light  in  his  timid 
eye: 

"Wait  on  the  corner  here,  and  I  will  show 
you  what  I  can  do." 

He  went  straight  to  a  small  publishing 
house,  and  inside  of  ten  minutes,  just  long 

55 


enough,  I  felt,  for  them  to  see  what  I  had 
seen  in  the  poem,  he  came  up  the  street,  wav 
ing  a  small  green  flag.  It  was  a  five- 
dollar  bill.  I  remember  well  the  feeling 
I  had  as  I  looked  first  at  him  and  then 
at  William.  "Is  it  possible,"  I  murmured  to 
myself,  "that  we  have  a  genius  in  our  midst?" 
I  was  rather  joyously  crestfallen,  however,  as 
I  had  nothing  of  importance  in  my  own  midst 
just  then.  Still,  I  demanded  the  facts,  and  I 
got  them  before  I  would  budge.  My  friend 
had  done  some  hack  work  for  that  man,  and 
he  had  now  proved  to  be  One  Noble  Pub 
lisher — and  I  repoorted  the  same  to  Flannigan. 

Mr.  Reader,  have  you  ever  walked  up 
Broadway,  before  it  was  spoiled,  on  a  sunny 
afternoon  in  the  early  fall,  when  Lee  marched 
over  the  mountain-wall,  and  dropped  in  at 
Wildey's,  and  Black's,  and  the  Metropolitan, 
watching  your  tank  meter  and  your  gastric 
rheostat  carefully,  in  order  to  keep  the  line 
working  just  right  for  Sinclair  fishballs,  a 
Continental  sour,  and  a  Park  &  Tilford  cigar? 
That's  what  we  did;  for,  like  Little  Willie, 
we  knew  just  what  to  do. 

Ah!  them  was  happy  days! 

Nevermore,  nevermore ! 

56 


One  of  our  chief  delights  on  ambrosial 
nights  was  to  capture  a  ninny,  take  him  to 
the  wigwam,  start  a  game  of  pennyante,  un 
load  our  systems  of  their  accumulation  of  wit 
ticism  and  repartee,  and  get  fixed  for  the  even 
ing  work.  That  joyful  job  was  to  make  a 
poet  of  a  ninny.  Of  course,  I  do  not  mean 
that  we  wanted  to  make  him  write  poetry, 
but  to  work  on  him  until  we  made  him  feel 
like  a  poet. 

The  course  was  a  simple  one,  but  was  varied 
according  to  the  temperature  of  the  brute. 
One  case  is  enough  to  give  a  general  idea  of 
the  entire  curriculum.  He  was  a  young  fel 
low  with  glistening  upper  cheeks  and  a  dis 
solving  eye,  whose  only  books  were  woman's 
looks  and  folly  all  they  taught  him.  His  cross 
was  to  search  titles  for  a  big  insurance  com 
pany  that  even  in  those  days  was  strictly  a 
philanthropic  institution. 

We  started  in  with  Don  Juan.  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  now  that  no  matter  what  the 
temperature  of  the  victim,  gin  or  water,  beer 
or  s'prilla,  corncob  pipe  or  cigarette,  we  could 
always  find  in  Byron  what  we  wanted.  All 
up  for  the  Sagamore  toast! 


57 


Byron,  Byron,  Byron! 

Here's  a  health  to  thee,  Devil  Byron ! 

Having  soothed  our  ninny  with  some  of 
those  passages  in  the  Don  which  real  human 
beings,  like  Gertrude  Atherton,  for  instance, 
can  read  without  getting  blood  poisoning,  we 
would  gradually  induct  his  timorous  and 
doubting  soul  into  the  arcana  of  the  beautiful. 
I  have  never  known  (with  one  exception)  the 
following  item  from  the  Don  to  fail  us : 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watchdog's  honest  bark 
Bay    deep-mouth'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near 
home ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come; 

'Tis  sweet  to  be  awaken'd  by  the  lark, 
Or  lull'd  by  falling  waters ;  sweet  the  hum 

Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

Etc. 

Turn  we  back  to  the  Hebrew  Melodies,  and : 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes; 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

Etc. 

58 


Forward  all  to  the  Childe : 

Adieu,  adieu !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight; 
Farewell  awhile  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Land — Good  Night ! 

Etc. 

And  now  we  are  off  for  fair.     How  about 
old  Ben?    Listen: 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sip, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

Etc. 

Hand  me  that  Hood : 

Oh,  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines? 

She's  gone  into  the  west, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest; 

59 


She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Etc. 

For  heaven's  sake,  give  me  my  Willis: 

On  the  cross-beam,  under  the  Old  South  bell, 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air; 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last; 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  his  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  his  mottled  throat. 

Etc. 


And  now  we  begin  to  mount.     Up,  up  we 
go  to  Keats  and  Shelley : 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Etc. 

60 


Well,  here  we  are  at  last  to  the  final  test. 
If  our  ninny  can  see  this  we  have  him  for 
keeps  and  Keats: 


St.  Agnes  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the   frozen 

grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold; 
Numb  were  the  beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 

Seemed    taking   flight    for    heaven    without    a 

death, 

Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer 
he  saith. 

Full  on  the  casement  shone  th'e  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  o'n  Madeline's  fair  breast. 

Etc. 

Tis  done.  Another  soul  saved  from  hell. 
He's  ours! 

The  morning  sun  comes  peeping  over  the 
hills,  comes  peeping  over  the  hills. 

It  is  the  morrow.  I  am  sitting  at  the  proof 
table.  In  comes  Mr.  Ninny. 

"Hello,  Bill ;  that  was  a  great  night  for  me. 
I  like  it,  I  do." 

61 


"Yes,  yes ;  it's  all  right,  if  you  don't  get  too 
much  of  it." 

"I  guess  that's  so.  By  the  way,  Sagamore, 
what  are  gules?" 

I  draw  the  curtain.  The  jig  is  up.  I  knew 
instantly  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "Eimer  &  Amend  make  a 
specialty  of  gules.  You  can  get  all  you  want 
for  ten  cents.  You  don't  have  to  warm  them." 

My  thoughts  being  so  fixed  on  the  old  boys, 
for  whose  diversion  these  pages  have  been 
printed,  I  have  overlooked  the  fact  that  there 
may  be  youngsters  of  theirs  who  are  doing 
much  the  same  as  the  old  fellows  did.  To 
those  youngsters  I  address  a  few  lines  of  ad 
vice  from  experience. 

There  is  nothing  in  reason  or  theology  to 
restrain  you  from  loving  many  things.  You 
may  love  success,  without  harm ;  you  may  love 
money,  without  injury;  you  may  love  poetry, 
without  disaster;  you  may  love  a  woman,  with 
out  fear  of  recovery — but  I  charge  you — you 
must  not  Jove  children — you  might  lose  them. 

I  see  it  now,  as  clear  and  sharp  as  the  light 
ning's  streak — the  white  bed — the  gentle  little 
face,  just  bathed  by  loving  hands — the  hair 
smoothed  back  from  the  fine  forehead — the 

62 


strain  of  anxiety  passing  from  the  eyes  of  the 
two  watchers — merely  an  ill-turn,  this — all 
better,  now — to-morrow  will  be  a  glad  day 
again — but  what  is  this  he  says — "I  see  two 
papas  and  two  mammas,  and  I  love  them  both 
the  same." — My  God!  my  God!  He  has  gone 
— gone — that  boy — that  little  gentleman ! — our 
boy — my  boy ! — Now  is  the  time — and  I  pinion 
her  arms  to  her  side  and  hold  that  poor  in 
sane  woman  in  a  vise.  It  is  my  duty,  because 
I  am  a  man. 

A  few  steps  up  Mahonia  path  in  Greenwood, 
near  one  of  the  large  trees,  is  a  fair-sized  stone 
bearing  the  two  names.  It  shows  that  one  was 
about  a  year  and  a  half  old,  and  the  other 
fourteen.  The  observer  may  think  that  it 
would  have  been  complete  if  there  had  been 
another,  say  about  midway  between  these  ages. 
Ha !  ha !  It  is  complete. 

Sunday  after  Sunday,  summer  and  winter, 
you  may  find  there  a  commonplace  man  and 
woman,  moving  about  in  the  usual  way,  talk 
ing  of  the  grass,  or  the  flowers,  or  the  ever 
green,  sometimes  smiling — never  weeping — no 
tears  there — it's  four  years  now.  No,  sir.  You 
must  go  down  into  the  cellar  when  you  hear 
the  coal  rattling,  and  catch  the  man  working — 

63 


you  must  go  up  on  the  second  floor  and  catch 
the  woman  on  her  knees — merely  tidying  up 
the  old  school-books,  if  you  are  a  student  of 
life,  and  want  some  of  its  minor  details.  Then, 
then,  you  may  find  out  something  that  Christ 
himself  never  knew ! 

Now,  youngsters,  that's  all  you  are  going 
to  get  from  me.  I  am  truly  obliged  to  you  for 
this  opportunity,  for  I  have  been  bursting  to 
tell  it  to  some  one,  all  these  long  years,  and 
I  had  never  thought  of  you.  Of  course  I 
could  not  tell  it  to  her,  because  she  is  a  woman, 
and  it  is  my  duty  to  clothe  and  support  her. 

To  resume.  The  toughest  case  we  ever  had 
to  deal  with  was  a  combination  mule.  He  was 
six  in  one,  namely:  a  chemist,  a  court  officer, 
a  Jesuit  (I  guess),  a  classical  scholar  (he 
always  pronounced  it  Kikero),  a  chess  player, 
and  a  murderer  (of  the  violin). 

Now  the  editor  of  the  Gotham  Weekly 
Gazette,  to  which  I  at  one  time  contributed, 
without  adequate  remuneration  a  rather  newsy 
column  under  the  caption,  "Brooklyn  Breath 
ings,"  says  the  best  joke  ever  written  is  that 
in  which  the  country  jay,  seeing  a  giraffe  for 
the  first  time,  exclaimed :  "Hell !  there  ain't  no 
such  animal !"  I  respectfully  beg  to  differ.  I 

64 


think  the  best  joke  is  the  old-timer  in  which 
a  fly  lit  above  the  staff  of  the  cornet  player, 
and  he  played  the  fly. 

We  tried  this  idea  on  our  fiddling  friend  by 
carefully  altering  his  score  at  a  point  that  we 
thought  might  perhaps  cause  him  to  break  a 
string,  instead  of  sawing  it  off.  It  was  a  fail 
ure.  His  eyes  bulged  a  little  more  than  usual, 
but  that  was  all  the  effect  we  could  get.  Then 
we  gave  it  up,  and  told  him  he  could  go  to 
hell  'if  he  wanted  to. 

The  only  good  he  ever  was  to  us  was  to 
enable  us  to  make  what  we  believed  to  be  a 
new  definition,  thus:  CHALCEDONY— A 
plastic  substance  having  a  soul. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  was  asked  whether  I 
had  ever  written  a  poem. 

I  had. 

It  seemed  so  easy  a  thing  to  do  that  I  de 
cided  to  try  it;  but  I  determined  it  should  not 
be  like  anything  Byron  ever  wrote.  The  sub 
ject  I  particularly  liked  was :  "A  Vision  of 
Loveliness."  At  any  cost,  it  must  be  realism. 
So  I  struck  off  this  line  and  an  eighth : 


Nor  freckle,  pimple,  mole,  nor  wart 
Has  she. 


Beyond  that  I  was  unable  to  go.  So  I 
changed  the  subject  to  "Nodhead  Apples,"  be 
cause  I  used  to  regard  the  flavor  of  those 
apples  as  truly  exquisite.  I  finished  that  one, 
and  sent  it  in  gratuitously,  but  no  one  printed 
it. 

If  Artemus  Ward  had  been  one  of  our  In 
dians  he  would  probably  have  called  me  an 
amoosin'  cuss  in  some  things.  Anyway,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  that  that  poem  might,  could, 
would,,  and  should,  may,  can,  and  must  be 
printed.  So  I  took  a  stick,  went  to  the  L.  P. 
case,  set  up  the  poem,  took  it  to  the  proof- 
press,  wet  the  paper  with  a  sponge,  and  rolled 
the  log. 

Behold  the  miracle!  My  poem  was  printed 
— edition  limited  to  one  copy.  I  pasted  that 
copy  in  my  personal  scrap-book,  and  it  is  there 
now.  Following  is  a  true  transcript: 

Nodheads ; 

They  are  in  the  market — 

Nodhead  apples  from  New  England  trees ; 

In  my  boyhood  how  they  bobbed  among  the 

leaves. 

How  they  toppled  in  the  breeze — 
Nodhead  apples  on  New  England  trees. 


66 


Tetoskies  grew  there  in  that  garden ; 

Dangled  high  the  ruddy  Dane, 
Baldwin,  Winter  Sweet,  Russet,  and  that  beauty — 

The  almost  purple  Blue  Pearmain. 

But  the  Nodheads  in  the  corner, 
And  the  green    light  shadows  there, 
And  the  crooked  trunk  and  branches, 
And  the  dappled  windfalls  huddling, 
Where  the  grass  and  weeds  grew  tall, 
Near  the  moss-grown  tumbled-down  stonewall — 
Nodhead  apples  from 
New  England  trees; 
In  the  market  now  you'll  find  them. 

It  is  said  that  a  publisher  is  a  blockhead — 
that  he  does  not  know  a  good  thing  when  he 
sees  it.  Believing  that,  and  being  now  a  pub 
lisher  of  my  own  poem,  I  resolved  to  have  a 
parley,  a  la  De  Foe's  Captain  Singleton.  So 
I  sought  one  of  my  primordial  enemies,  and 
said: 

"Will  you  give  me  your  opinion  of  my 
poem?" 

"Do  you  call  that  a  poem?"  • 

"That  is  not  for  me  to  say.  Do  you  not 
call  it  a  poem?" 

"I  do  not  call  it  anything.  What  does  it 
mean  ?" 

"Can't  you  see  what  it  means  ?" 

67 


"Do  you  expect  me  to  see  nothing?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  nothing?" 

"Nothing — not  any  thing." 

"Then  in  your  opinion  that  is  not  a  poem; 
but  can  you  tell  me  why  it  is  not  a  poem?" 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  prove  a  nullity  ?" 

"A  nullity?" 

"A  nullity." 

"I  suppose  not;  but  will  you  kindly  tell  me, 
as  man  to  man,  what  you  would  call  it  if  you 
had  to  call  it  something?" 

"Punk." 

"Punk?" 

"Punk." 

"Punk?" 

"P-U-N-K!" 

Oh,  somewhere  in  this  favored  land  the  sun 
is  shining  bright.  The  band  is  playing  some 
where,  and  somewhere  hearts  are  light;  and 
somewhere — 

Some  time  after  this  catastrophe  three  or 
four  of  us  were  sitting  in  Mac's  at  the  table 
near  the  stove,  sipping  hot  Scotch.  There  was 
to  be  a  change  on  the  morrow.  We  were  about 
to  break  camp.  The  subject  of  wealth  and 
ambition  came  up.  The  name  of  a  very  rich 
man  was  mentioned. 

68 


"I  do  not  envy  him,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?"  asked  our  poet,  who  was  be 
ginning  to  lament  the  years  he  had  wasted. 

"Because,"  I  replied,  "he  has  had  but  one 
thought  all  his  life,  and  can  never  have  any 
thing  now  but  money." 

"But  what  can  you  and  I  have?"  he  asked. 

"Memories,"  I  replied. 

"The  Sagamore  has  spoken  well,"  quoth  the 
poet. 


69 


ADDENDUM    TO    THE 
NOCTES 

I  was  surprised  and  pleased  a  few  days  ago 
to  learn  how  Queed  had  turned  out.  I  knew 
him  quite  well,  and  the  others,  the  Two  Queeds, 
first  rate.  The  Indians  of  the  old  camping- 
ground  always  spoke  of  him  as  Queered. 

I  had  no  idea  there  was  anything  in  that 
fellow.  But  that  only  shows  once  more  what 
a  woman  can  do.  The  old  umbrella  grabber 
at  the  Astor  said  he  understood  Queed  had  a 
job  offered  to  him  somewhere  in  the  South. 
He  thought  they  said  Norfolk,  but  wasn't 
sure. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "that  four-eyed  fish  wouldn't 
work!" 

But  who  this  man  Harrison  is  who  wrote  up 
Queered,  I  have  no  idea.  He  certainly  has  a 
sweet-scented  middle  part  in  his  name — Syd- 
nor.  Ah,  there,  Sydnor !  He  did  a  pretty  good 
job  alleesamee,  believee  me.  Of  course,  he, 

70 


Sydnor,  will  go  the  way  they  all  do — give  the 
publishers  what  they,  the  publishers,  think 
they,  the  people,  want — write  for  the  Saturday 
Morning  Pest — and  peter,  peter,  peter. 

As  I  was  saying,  I  knew  Queed  quite  well. 
One  day  I  met  him  on  the  library  steps,  and 
asked  him  whether  he  had  read  the  letter  I 
had  sent  to  the  Sun  over  my  pseudonym,  which 
is  as  follows: 

LAST  PRINCIPLES :  BY  A  BROOKLYN 
STUDENT  OF   HERBERT   SPENCER 

To  the  Editor  of  The  Sun. 

SIR: — Never  having  been  able  to  find  any  sim 
ple  explanation  of  the  doctrine  of  evolution,  I 
here  state  what  I  think  I  have  learned  from  the 
works  of  Herbert  Spencer  and  others  about  the 
master  key,  which  seems  to  be  regarded  as  the 
most  important  academic  discovery  of  the  past 
century.  All  the  phenomena  of  business,  morals, 
religion  and  physics  are  now  so  quickly  accounted 
for  by  those  who  understand  the  new  philosophy 
that  anything  which  helps  to  make  its  meaning 
plain  may  be  regarded  as  important. 

If  my  definitions  are  inaccurate  or  inadequate, 
perhaps  some  of  your  readers  may  give  a  clearer 
explanation  of  the  terms  here  treated: 

I.  Evolution  is  the  law  by  which  an  event  may 
be  foretold  after  it  takes  place. 

71 


2.  Natural  selection  is  the  process  of  choosing 
what  you  have  after  you  get  it. 

3.  Survival  of  the  fittest  is  the  method  of  proof 
by  which  a  living  dog  becomes  better  than  a  dead 
lion.  H.  C.  WHITE. 

Brooklyn,  April  27. 

He  had  read  it,  of  course,  as  all  he  ever  did 
do  at  that  time  was  to  read.  And  that  was  the 
only  time  I  ever  saw  him  smiie.  It  was  a 
terrible  sight.  But  I  was  bound  to  get  some 
thing  out  of  him,  so  I  said : 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 
He  was  himself  again  in  an  instant,  and  re 
plied  in  the  old  touch-me-not  style : 
"I  don't  think  I  quite  understand  it." 
A  short  time  after  Queered  went  South,  as 
I  was  cutting  through  Minetta  lane,  I  ran  into 
Tim  Queed. 

"Hello,  Tim,"  I  cried;  "how's  graft?" 
"Aeough,  pooty  good,"  he  replied. 
"It's  rumored  in  society,"  said  I,  "that  the 
young  feller  has  caught  onto  a  job  in  Norfolk. 
Is  that  straight  goods  ?"  I  asked. 

"Naeough,  they  ain't  nothin'  into  it." 
After  a  moment's  pause,  I  asked : 
"Did  you  hear  how  Jim  Barclay  came  near 
getting  pinched  ?" 

72 


"How's  that?"  asked  Tim,  with  interest.  "I 
thought  he  had  the  finest  pertection  in  the  Vil 
lage." 

"Well,  you  see,  Jim  was  taking  his  regular 
walk  up  Sixth  avenue,  and  on  the  way  back 
he  lost  that  flower  out  of  his  buttonhole.  The 
flatties  picked  him  up  for  a  con  man,  and 
wouldn't  let  him  go  below  Fourteenth  street 
until  Barney  Martin  came  along  and  identified 
him  as  Jim  Barclay  without  his  flower !" 

I  dodged  Tim's  club,  and  passed  on  to  get 
my  giblet  stew  in  the  place  where  they  knew 
how  to  make  a  giblet  stew. 

But  who  this  man  Harrison  is  who  wrote  up 
Queered,  I  have,  as  I  have  already  said,  no 
idea.  I  don't  keep  track  of  them  nowadays, 
as  I  used  to.  That  reminds  me  that  I  ought 
to  feel  older  and  more  dignified  than  I  used  to. 
But  I  don't.  I  love  truth  in  all  its  forms  or 
disguises  the  same  as  ever.  Septimus  Locke 
says  truth  is  a  ghastly  thing.  I  don't  believe 
that — yet.  I  would  like  to  know  what  that 
fellow  Chesterton  thinks  on  the  subject.  Why, 
I  would  run  a  block  in  the  rain  now,  as  I 
have  done  many  a  time,  to  catch  up  with  three 
inches  of  black  silk  stocking  showing  above  a 
high-cut  button-shoe — if  it  looked  to  be  true. 

73 


Less  than  a  month  ago  in  Flatbush  avenue, 
in  the  window  of  a  little  art  store,  not  far  from 
the  Orpheum,  I  stood  close  to  the  glass  gaz 
ing  at  a  bunch  of  truths — naked  truths.  Along 
came  a  quartette  of  civil  engineer's  helpers 
with  their  transits,  tapes,  khaki  trousers,  and 
persiflage.  "That's  right,  Pop,"  said  one  of 
them ;  "look  'em  over,  look  'em  over." 

Now,  as  some  of  the  old  boys  will  see  this 
booquita  of  mine,  if  I  can  find  out  where  they 
are,  I  am  going  to  give  here  a  few  paragraphs 
from  that  write-up  just  to  show  what  a  honey- 
pot  Queered  fell  into: 

Engrossed  with  her  papers,  she  moved  toward 
him ;  but  he,  with  a  directness  which  would  not 
flinch  even  in  this  untried  emergency,  deliberately 
intruded  himself  between  her  and  the  table;  and 
so  once  more  they  stood  face  to  face. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  began,  his  man 
ner  at  its  quietest.  "Why  do  you  want  to  do 
this  for  me?" 

At  this  close  range,  she  glanced  once  at 'him 
and  instantly  looked  away.  His  face  was  as 
white  as  paper;  and  when  she  saw  that,  her  heart 
first  stopped  beating,  and  then  pounded  off  in  a 
wild,  frightened  paean. 

"I — can  not  tell  you — I  don't  know — exactly." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

74 


She  hardly  recognized  his  voice;  instinctively 
she  began  backing  away. 

"I  don't  think  I — can  explain.  You — rather  ter 
rify  me  this  morning." 

"Are  you  in  love  with  ME?"  he  demanded  in 
a  terrible  voice,  beginning  at  the  wrong  end,  as  he 
would  be  sure  to  do. 

Finger  at  her  lip,  her  blue  eyes  bright  with 
unshed  tears,  resting  upon  his  in  a  gaze  as  direct 
as  a  child's  Sharlee  nodded  her  head  up  and  down. 


75 


L'ENVOI 

When  I  look  over  my  collection  and  stop 
with  irritation  to  read  once  more  one  of  the 
hundreds  of  fine  things  I  have  found,  I  am 
dumb.  How  do  these  people  do  these  things? 
Is  it  sweat?  Is  it  genius?  I  can  not  believe 
in  spirits  except  those  that  are  distilled.  Why, 
that's  it,  after  all — Genius  is  a  spirit  that  is 
distilled  from  anything  that  has  it  in  it. 

And  now,  ye  little  children  of  genius :  Sally 
(I  knew  another  Sallie  once,  and  I  love  her 
yet  for  what  she  was  and  proved  to  be),  and 
Florence,  and  Strickland,  and  Gerome,  and 
Ernest,  and  Josephine,  and  Anon,  and  The 
Roman,  and  Thomas,  and  the  Mouse,  and  the 
little  Sage  Hen,  gather  around  in  this  far 
night  hour,  and  hear  the  words  of  the  Saga 
more:  You  are  not  happy;  you  are  like  chil 
dren  on  a  merry-go-round  stabbing  at  and 
missing  the  worthless  little  iron  ring;  I  am 
sorry  for  you ;  I  am  with  you,  but  not  of  you. 
Worruk,  ye  Dagos. 

76 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VOCABULARY  OF  CHECKERS 

A  dictionary  of  words,  terms,  and  phrases  used 
in  the  game  called  Checkers,  or  English  Draughts. 
Cloth,  $2.00. 

"It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  so  simple  a  game  as  checkers 
should  have  developed  so  extensive  a  vocabulary  as  Mr.  William 
Timothy  Call  has  gathered  in  'Vocabulary  of  Checkers.'  It 
fills  200  good-sized  pages.  The  author's  definitions  are  ency 
clopaedic,  and  include  a  mass  of  interesting  information  about 
the  game." — N.  Y.  Sun. 

"To  the  growing  body  of  checkerists  who  take  an  interest  in 
the  literature  of  the  pastime,  and  are  pleased  to  view  with  ap 
probation  the  various  attempts  by  high-minded  devotees  of  Dameh 
to  add  dignity  and  quiet  charm  to  an  otherwise  simple  and  unas 
suming  subject,  it  will  bring  keen  enjoyment.  No  matter  how 
quaint  or  provincial,  or  how  modern  and  precise  the  term 
sought,  it  will  be  found  in  this  remarkable  collection.  Mr.  Call 
must  have  gone  to  a  great  deal  of  labor  to  produce  so  acceptable 
a  work,  and  he  is  deserving  of  fullest  thanks  for  the  fruit  of 
his  peculiar  genius." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 


THE  LITERATURE  OF  CHECKERS 

A  description  of  all  the  books,  pamphlets,  and 
magazines  devoted  to  the  game  from  1756  to  the 
present  day;  giving  current  value  of  all  rare  or 
scarce  works;  227  entries.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

"A  magnificent  and  painstaking  contribution  to  draughts  litera 
ture." — Suffolk  Chronicle,  England. 


R.  D.  YATES,  CHECKER  PLAYER 

An  intimate  biography  of  the  greatest  of  checker 
players;  covering  anecdotes,  opinions,  methods, 
triumphs,  all  his  games  in  full;  incidentally  a  his 
tory  of  checkers  in  America.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

"We  have  rarely  read  so  engrossing  a  work." — The  Umpire, 
Manchester,  England. 

THE  SAFE  CHECKER  PLAYER 

Vol.  I. — The  Black  Side.  Devoted  exclusively  to 
play;  showing  a  safe  course  to  the  player  who 
starts  the  game,  however  his  opponent  may  attack 
him  at  any  point.  Leather,  vest-pocket  size,  50 
cents. 

Vol.  II. — The  White  Side.  A  companion  vol 
ume;  showing  a  safe  course  to  the  second  player, 
however  his  opponent  may  start  the  game  or  carry 
out  the  attack.  Leather,  vest-pocket  size,  50  cents. 

"These  little  books  contain  the  essence  of  many  volumes  of 
published  play,  and  are  invaluable  as  a  short  but  thorough  equip 
ment  for  the  practical  player." — Draughts  World,  Glasgow,  Scot 
land. 

ELLSWORTH'S  CHECKER  BOOK 

A   book   for   beginners;    arranged    according   to 
suggestions  of  the  late  Charles  Ellsworth,  the  pro 
fessional   blind   checker   player.      Paper,   25   cents. 
"Contains,   in  addition  to  much   that   is  entertaining,   some   of 
the  most  valuable  instruction  on  the   rudiments  of  the  game  that 
is  to  be  found  in  any  treatise." — Newark  Advertiser. 

THE  LITTLE  GRAMMAR 

Original  in  every  way — new  in  design,  new  in 
method,  new  in  doctrine.  Large  type.  Cloth,  50 
cents. 

"To  get  into  thirty-five  pages  a  practically  complete  English 
grammar,  which  covers  all  the  irregularities  of  the  English  tongue, 
and  sets  the  wanderer  right  when  he  goes  astray  grammatically, 
is  truly  an  achievement.  Mr.  Call  has  done  a  remarkable  work 
in  this  grammar." — Butte  Inter  Mountain. 

"It   comprehends  all   there   is   to   grammar." — Brooklyn   Eagle. 

"It  epitomizes  in  thirty-five  pages  of  concentrated  wisdom  all 
a  boy  would  be  expected  to  digest  from  a  volume  of  350  pages 
in  the  regular  school  course." — Albany  Argus. 


SCIENTIFIC  SOLITAIRE 

A  new  game  of  Solitaire,  or  Patience,  based  on 
exact  calculation,  and  eliminating  memorizing. 
Paper,  20  cents. 

"Any  one  understanding  cards  at  all  can  not  fail  to  comprehend 
the   author's  clear   and  lucid  explanation." — San   Francisco   Call. 

SHORTHAND  FOR  GENERAL  USE 

Intended  for  those  who  would  like  to  be  able  to 
write  shorthand  without  hesitation,  connecting  one 
letter  with  another  as  freely  as  in  longhand,  and 
not  be  obliged  to  master  a  highly  scientific  treatise 
in  order  to  obtain  brevity  and  speed  enough  for 
common  purposes.  Paper,  25  cents. 
"A  little  book.  One  of  its  great  recommendations  is  its  sim- 
p'icity." — Rochester  Post-Express. 

"Opens   up   many   new   avenues." — Cincinnati   Star. 

"Any  one  can  utilize  it  for  general  work." — Columbus  Journal. 

KBOO:       The  Counting  Game 

A  scientific,  historical  pastime,  with  a  past,  a 
present,  and  a  future.  Paper,  25  cents. 

Among  civilized  people,  chess  and  draughts  can  alone  be 
classed  as  games  of  pure  skill,  entirely  free  from  chance.  A 
third  game,  Kbop,  equally  free  from  chance,  and  affording  un 
limited  opportunity  for  the  exercise  of  mental  skill,  is  played 
over  the  whole  of  Africa  and  Southern  Asia,  and  by  the  negroes 
of  the  West  Indies,  but  seems  never  to  have  been  taken  up  by 
European  races." — National  Geographers'  Magazine. 

TEN   GREAT   LITTLE  POEMS 

This  book;  50  cents. 


C.  M.  POTTERDON 

"Dealer  in  Checker  "BooKs 
HAWTHORNE,  N.  J. 

General  Sales  Agent  for  W.  T.  CALL 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


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